2004-01-30

I dare not ask what strange combinations of words Igg is typing into Google these days. Today’s offering: if ever a Swede tells you they’ve been fucking the dog, it might behoove you to place an emergency call to the SPCA. (Sweden! So much more than modular furniture and meatballs!)

This is where I ruin my slickest segue EVER by building it up too much and making it inevitably anticlimactic:

Speaking of fucking dogs (See what I mean? Now it just seems laboured and obvious. I’m a no-talent hack who will never go anywhere in life. In other news, when did I become Woody Allen?), last night was the LAST NIGHT of hideous-rat-creature-sitting, thank the merciful lord. Because I am exhausted. Not, as you might think, because I’ve been capering about with squeaky toys, trying my utmost to elevate the spirits of the rat-creatures – they’re rats! They can amuse themselves with filth, as nature intended! – but because Monster’s building is haunted.

Or perhaps it has creaky old plumbing. I’m not going to split hairs. All I know is, I’ve been woken up several times a night by what sounds like a hammer bashing the life out of the radiator, not two feet from my head. Seriously – two AM in Monster’s bedroom sounds like this: CLANG! Bang bang bang! Crash THWANG! (And before you make some puerile insinuation, I sleep alone, ta very much.)

I’m totally convinced that the “old plumbing” thing is a cover-up. It’s quite clear that the landlord’s deformed offspring are living in the walls, sending messages to each other in code. Which is encouraging, because it means I can kill them, and thus stop the noise without having to pay a plumber. What those guys charge is completely insane.